me. They think I have put on airs. They don't know that why I have not been out here before is because I was trying to forget and trying to make my life all over." Laddie shook his head in the old persuasive way. "No, no, dear, don't ask me, I can't, oh, Laddie, dear, I must not ride-and yet—and yet-" With a spring she was in the saddle, and gathering up the reins, she was off at a gallop down the road.

And Billy B. chancing to come around the turn, recognized the familiar figure and wheeled beside her.

"Why, dear old Jan!" And she flashed him the old smile of welcome, and they started off in the same old way just as if five days instead of five years had elapsed since their last ride.

The news had spread that Jan had come back-that Laddie, too, had suddenly reappeared, being owned by one of the Southerners who had come up for the hunt, and that, moreover, Billy B. and Jan were off on a cross-country ride, quite like old times at the club. Yes, the news had spread and many had gathered on the veranda to see them come in. At last they came, Jan in the lead, her hat gone, her hair flying, the old color in her cheeks, the old sparkle in her eyes-yes, this was the real Jan at last-the buoyant, spirited Jan of the old days.

And all the fluttering crowd saw her and instantly forgave her long absence-she was back, she was the same.

But among all that gay group, there was one tall serious man who looked somehow out of place. His face alone grew grave as he saw her, and with long strides and set face he pushed his way through the crowd. Billy B. drew suddenly back. He had forgotten the other man-forgotten that all was changed, and that after all Jan was not the same old Jan but quite of another world than his. In that mad glorious ride Billy B. had forgotten everything.

The other man strode up to Jan. Suddenly the color died out of her cheeks-she almost fell into his arms. He laid her quietly on the grass and knelt down beside her.

"Oh don't," pleaded Jan, "Don't look so, dear. Of course it was very wrong, but I do care, dear-you can't understandhow the old feeling got into me--oh, I really do care-only-you see-" She turned her eyes wearily toward the horse. see Laddie was-was my first love."

"You

HELEN ROGERS,

A ROUNDED EDUCATION

O, Constance, if you only cared,
Or gave the slightest sign

That you loved me, perhaps I'd dare
To send a valentine.

But I am 'most afraid to say

I'll love you till you die,

For you would scornfully remark, "O, don't be silly, Si!"

Also, you've been to college since
We used to play in school,

And I am sure you'd think my verse

The merest silly drule.

You talk of Marlowe's mighty line,

And Lyly's "Euphues,"

And say you simply love to spend
Whole hours over these,

You think Romance has quite died out
Since Lovelace passed away,

And men have lost the stamp they had
In Charlotte Bronté's day.

And yet you feel you haven't time
For love, "it's such a strife."

You spend your days in guessing what
Your purpose is in life.

Forget those missions, every one.

If you could only see

The very best of mission work

Is looking after me!

Your college is a narrow place,

It only trains a part.

O, Constance, give to me the right

To educate your heart.

ESTHER JOSEPHINE SANDERSON.

EDITORIAL

--

Among the arts and sciences practiced at college by no means the least is the noble art of congratulating. This is not down. in the curriculum as a course three hours through the year. It has no place in the schedule, and yet no one can come to college without taking it. It is more compulsory than Bible and the junior philosophy requirement. It is more to be dreaded than freshman mathematics. Woe unto those who approach friends who have newly acquired collegiate honors with tears of joy beyond measure, for they shall be called "boot-lickers." Woe unto those who offer the lukewarm and perfunctory handshake, for to them shall be ascribed inward jealousy, and woe unto those who refuse to express unfelt altruistic pleasure by any handshake at all, for they shall be branded as disagreeable misanthropes false to the spirit of the college. These are not the only Scylla and Charybdis into which the unwary congratulator may fali. There are whirlpools of interclass etiquette whose ways are too deep and mysterious to be here dealt with, for the term "fusser" is apt to be hurled at any one who administers more than the most guarded cordiality to a member of another class.

In spite of all the dangers which have to be passed there are some people who succeed in walking a middle course. These are the girls who possess the ability to " rejoice" convincingly "with those who do rejoice." No one for an instant suspects them of jealousy, boot-licking or indifference, and yet they may have said a simple "I'm glad," as opposed to voluminous. gurgles of joy from other quarters. In what does this power to rejoice convincingly consist? What talisman have they to help them to the one narrow course which in the fairy tale leads through the Plain of Ill-luck where on the near side the feet of men stick fast and on the far side every blade of grass rises and holds them fast on its points?

The talisman guessed by most people is sincerity backed by interest in everybody, but there are others who claim that it is an understanding of the stage principle of reserve force. As to which are right we will not presume to judge.

Does the congratulatee take in and enjoy extravagant protestations of affection? The natural conceit of human kind helps. her to believe a lot of it. I have heard one person emerging from the strangling embrace of a casual acquaintance ruefully gasp, "I-I never knew you were fond of me before." It is fortunate that the idea that hysterics are necessary to the perfect expression of happiness is not shared by all or there would be nothing left of our first fives at the end of the day save shreds and tatters.

Would it be possible to restrict this course in congratulating to best friends? Not so. College is a place where all are best friends, or one is a snob. Would any one change this order of things? Shades of democracy forbid! Besides, although there are those who affect to think otherwise this course in congratulating may be made one of the most useful things in college. We have mental discipline galore, and here is an opportunity for a kind of emotional discipline not offered by the Elocution Department. Go to William Gillette, oh ye maidens ! The stage has been a great teacher in all ages, and reserve force is his long suit. Study the handshake of restrained emotion, and cease forever the gasps, gurgles and convulsive embraces which fill the hall outside of chapel on the mornings of society elections! Be cheered by the fact that there are those who have gone before you who have been able to enter into the joy of their friends without insincerity and without demonstration. In short, there are those who, if this course were provided with a course card, have shown themselves worthy to have a high grade placed in that mysterious upper right hand corner which only the eye of the office may see.

EDITOR'S TABLE

It is Ruskin who says that the greatest leading error of modern times is the mistaking of erudition for education. Unfortunately in college magazines this error is frequently displayed in the serious essays, which are all too often, a mere expression of erudition along certain required lines, instead of being the result of true education,—a condition to which no man has attained unless he be "busy, beneficent and effective in the world." The college essay is generally called in student vernaċular a "heavy," a term usually unfortunately apt, because it is often an unleavened effort of the erudite, meaning to the initiated that a certain amount of scholastic ground has been manfully covered, summed up more or less at length, the whole held together by not striking original personal opinions, strung along at intervals throughout the production.

Those things which a college undergraduate has read concerning, and the ideas which he holds in a luke-warm manner about some writer, Tolstoi for example, can hardly be said to be of general interest. It is this distinct lack of even an echo of a universal note in the subjects chosen which causes those pages of the magazine intrusted with the doughty "heavy" to remain so often uncut, and undisturbed by that literary surgical instrument, the paper-knife.

However, when some college magazine does publish an essay which is of great interest, alike to those in college and out, we greet it with the enthusiasm and attention which is the reward in this world only of the unusual. And such an essay is that in the January issue of the Yale Literary Magazine, on "The Aesthetic Value of Leisure." The title alone would insure its being read, and once read, it is remembered because the aesthetic results of leisure, in former times and in the rush of affairs today are estimated with admirable insight, clearness, and brevity. For once the collegiate point of view is not thrust at one,